


In Death...

by nyxxbx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Death, Darkspawn, F/M, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, POV Zevran Arainai, Pain, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, The Calling (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxxbx/pseuds/nyxxbx
Summary: The last letter Zevran received from The Warden was almost a year ago. Concerned for his love, he chooses to investigate. What he finds destroys him.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	In Death...

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING : Heavy feels and angst, Zevran becoming more and more broken as he proceeds and minor depictions of gore and injuries - I tried not to go overboard.
> 
> Elvish translations :
> 
> 'ma lath : my love  
> ir abelas : I'm sorry

The clink of coins sounds in the vast tunnel, and Zevran tsks as he watches one of the Inquisition's agents barely grasp the small bag of gold.

„Tell Nightingale that the handsome Antivan Crow sends his regards,“ the agent opens his mouth in argument, but Zevran stops him. „She'll know which one, _mind you_ , not many people are able to forget this sultry voice.“ He almost hisses, turning towards the entrance further into the thaig. „You have my utmost gratitude for assisting me thus far, gentlemen. Farewell!”

His fingers grasp the golden chain around his neck, and his other hand envelops the Dalish dagger in his holster. The Inquisition agents behind him falter and he hears whispers echoing around him. His footsteps slow down, waiting to see if they will try to stop him, call him a madman, a fool.

They do neither of those things, but the voice is confused.

“What do we tell Nightingale of your status? Dead? Alive? Worse…?” The younger agent shouts and Zevran hears a scuffle and a curse as the other agent elbows him.

He stops, fingers tracing the gold of the chain, thumb circling the woven ironbark branch around the small gold bar sitting just in between his collarbones. A scoff threatens to escape him, but he masks it with a bitter chuckle.

“There are few things worse than death, my friend… but tell her…” he stops, staring down at the gold bar, hearing distant melodic laughter.

He closes his eyes and lets out another chuckle – the sound closer to a sob.

“Tell her I’ve always been prone to having death wishes, no?”

Zevran doesn’t let them prod with more questions, leather boots shuffling across the stone through the thaig. He hears them move away behind him, footsteps heavy and loud and moving, whispering and then simply: _gone_.

The smell that coats the area around him is vile; his sweat, the stale air of the Deep Roads and all secrets buried there, a distant tinge of the Blight coming from somewhere deeper where he hopes he will not have to venture.

His nose twitches in discomfort, and he hums to himself, a rough motion that scratches at his throat. He feels the sweat build up on his neck, between his fingers as he grasps the small gold bar and in between his toes. The scent of leather engulfs him like a memory and a shaky breath escapes him as he courses through the vast stone tomb.

_“Is that some form of euphemism?”_

He hears her, and the sultry guffaw that he had let out then blends with the wounded noise that escapes his humming as the thoughts settle heavily on his shoulders.

His hand sneaks towards his lower back, grasping the small woollen pack that sits on his trousers. He presses on to the fabric, listening for the ruffle of paper. The way it breaks the silence makes him calmer. It shuffles and he presses deeper, suddenly wishing someone was with him.

Wishing _she_ were here with him.

Ending up alone was something that has happened to him more times that he can count, but it was not something he did well.

His eyes look forward and his footsteps falter as he scours the hall.

The letter in his pack ruffles once again as he grasps his dagger. That was the last word he had received from her. She sent him her good wishes, words teasing at their affection – he remembers the fond smile that tightened on his lips for the remainder of the day – and final hints of her whereabouts. She was never direct with her location, and initially, it had frustrated him. After a while, he realised it was for his – and her – own good.

She knew him well, something that was frightening at first that then turned to comforting.

Now, after not hearing anything from her for almost a year, he was downright terrified.

He had contacted Leliana, asking – no, _begging_ to know if she had received some word. A murmur, gossip, _anything_ that would let him know that his Warden could be alive.

He still remembers the words that made his blood freeze as he read them, index finger under his bottom lip, eyes sharp like his love’s arrows.

‘The Warden hasn’t sent a letter in more than a year. I’ve gone through some reports, though, and there are witnesses saying they had seen someone of her appearance in one of the thaigs in the Deep Roads. They didn’t get close enough to see for themselves, and the darkspawn prevented them from further investigations.’

The letter had continued and Zevran hated himself for continuing to read just that one small part. That one small part that tore right through his abdomen and left a gaping hole.

The truth was, he was always alone. The relationships he had with people were based solely on contracts, desire and satisfaction. Rinna was the first one to grab on to his heart and yet he had shaken her loose. Irosyl was the one that stayed. The one that gripped tight and refused to let go.

And now… she was somewhere, _gone_.

_“The Calling will claim me one day and… I don’t want you to see that, ‘ma lath.”_

He shakes his head, voice high-pitched as he focuses on humming another tune. He rummages around his pack for a map as he walks. Once it slips out, he unravels it, gloved finger tracing the badly drawn map – Irosyl was so much better at directions than him, he thinks painfully.

He taps on the scribbled name of the thaig.

“Bragi… Bragi…” he murmurs to himself, looking ahead, noting the two hallways that stretched further into the Deep Roads. “ _Ah-ah!_ Mi amore, you would be proud. Your Crow hasn’t fully lost his sense of direction.” His voice rasps into the vacant halls.

He swallows.

The muscles in his calves are sore and each step brings a wave of painful discomfort. He believes it to be early evening with the way the cold air blows through the hallways, but he cannot be certain.

Not when he’s this far beneath the earth. The Inquisition agents were unaccustomed to traipsing through the Deep Roads. Zevran had, _of course_ , noticed their nervous scratches and shivers, he used to have them too… and he remembers how restless and irritated he would get.

His Grey Warden had found it endearing.

Continuing to hum a tune, he places the map back into his pack, finger lingering on the letter and he clears his throat harshly, shifting his hand back to the small gold bar between his collarbones.

_“I found this in the Circle, of all places. I saw you buy that golden chain the other day, and I thought it looked empty, so… I decided to braid this strip of ironbark around the gold bar, just so you always have a little piece of me with you. Like I have a piece of you.”_

A mist forms over his eyes, and his jaw tightens as he raises his voice, the humming broken and too painful for his dry throat. The lump that tightens in his stomach makes his hands shake and he blinks, choosing to whistle instead.

He stops just before the entrance to the thaig, a wet breeze pulling at his form. A scent fills the air around him, though he does not recognise it right away.

The whistling stops, and he stills.

A dried, almost rusty spot is on the stone ground just a few steps away from the entrance.

Zevran swallows, and the tightness in his stomach grows.

“Deepstalkers got a bit promiscuous, _hmm_?” He says to no one but himself as he approaches the stain.

It is a small boot mark, the lines of the sole almost perfectly engraved and dripping into the stone. More of them follow ahead, limping or walking in an unusual manner – almost like an inebriated person.

Zevran sniffs, and the foul, old smell of blood burns through his nose. He recognises the smell from before he entered the chamber.

“Maybe a genlock wished to show off his new shoes?” He clicks his tongue, fear hidden behind an amused tone.

He moves further through the hallway, gloved hands grasping his daggers. His footsteps are light and easy, only soft thuds on top of the stone ground. Despite popular belief, he is not reckless. He can’t die before he reaches her.

He follows the bloodied boot marks, brows furrowed.

Another stain distracts him from his shuffling along the dark wall and he lowers himself to the ground to inspect it.

A smeared imprint of a hand lingers on the stone and the part towards the wrist fades into a rosy colour. There is another half print just above the first one, fingertips almost black on the ground.

Zevran feels his legs go numb at the sight and he wishes to reassure himself, but there is a lump in his throat and he can’t open his mouth, not even to exhale. Hot breath leaves his nostrils quickly and he feels his chest constrict at the sudden motion.

He stays there, tracing his gloved finger across the dried blood, his heart hammering in his chest.

Was she wounded?

His eyes quickly scour the area around him and he sees a lone vein of lyrium, but no arrows, no corpses.

Just bloodied prints that lead to…

_No_.

It was probably just a darkspawn. Nothing else. She punched it with her own fists, definitely.

Zevran lets out a strained chuckle that turns into an anxious inhale.

A rock falling from the ceiling breaks his trance and he flinches, hand flying to his dagger as he looks around.

He is panicking, he realises.

His hands shake as he stands up, moving further through the thaig, eyes alert for any more clues.

Fear clings to his stomach and he wishes to flee. “Come on, Zev… your Warden is waiting for you.” He whispers to himself and his voice shakes.

This time, he exhales through his mouth and it calms him. He ignores the scent of iron the air, choosing to press on.

The stone chamber is unnaturally silent, and the hairs on his neck stand up. There is a hill blocking his view of the other side of the chamber. More bloodied marks traipse through the chamber, aimlessly, in a maddening swerve. Zevran follows them, ears on alert for intruders and possible death. The chamber looks like a perfect spot for an ambush.

He would know.

He stops as a body comes into his view.

_No…_

No.

A darkspawn corpse lays a few feet away from him and he feels his heart flutter at the possibility. He lets out a relieved breath, hands greeting his shaking knees for a moment. This isn’t his first time in the Deep Roads, but he does wish it to be his last.

After he finds her, of course.

_“Zevran, ‘ma lath?”_

_“Hmmm…?”_

_“When we get out of here and when all of this is over, we’re moving somewhere with a great view.”_

_“Whatever you desire, mi amore.”_

With a sharp inhale, he approaches the dead darkspawn, his foot cautiously moving the corpse to make sure that it is, in fact, dead. He clicks his tongue in disgust at the smell emitting from the corpse. It is a hurlock, from what he can tell. He is not certain, though, not without his expert Grey Wardens next to him. He swallows down the bile raising in his throat.

Zevran shifts the body on its back with his boot, his brows furrowed and his lip pulled upward in a sneer. He almost lets out a groan of disgust until he sees what is embedded within the darkspawn’s black heart.

His arms go numb.

The darkness of the creature’s blood coats one of _his_ daggers, the one he had given her before she disappeared to investigate the Calling. It is stained black and he can feel the heat from it, darkspawn blood warming the steel; yet despite all of that he sees the carved half of the tree on the hilt, the crimson colour just barely lingering from beneath the black.

He exhales, and he can’t focus on anything but the hilt of the dagger, his eyes already tracing the “Z” hidden beneath the dark mucus. 

Shaking hands grab a hold of his dagger, and he takes it out to reveal the other half of the tree, the background of it emerald green and with a small “I” carved just next to its branches.

A cold pit settles in his stomach.

He is gasping, now – breath barely escaping him as he takes a hold of the tunic underneath his armour and slices through the woollen fabric. He almost drops it and curses in Antivan, head shaking to calm himself. One foot rests on the belly of the hurlock and Zevran takes a hold of the embedded dagger. He pulls and the sound it makes as it travels through layers of skin is revolting, the smell almost unbearable. It squelches and bursts, warm black blood spurting out of it. Zevran lets out a whimper and his stomach hurts. He places the dagger on the fabric, rolling to fit it underneath so he doesn’t have to look at the stained gift for his beloved.

His pack now carries two of her possessions – the letter and the dagger.

He stands there for a moment, inspecting the darkspawn, trying to find the movements embedded within its flesh that he had taught her. Besides the obvious puncture wound in the hurlock’s heart, he sees the slice along the creature’s neck, not deep enough to decapitate, but enough to hurt badly. Her laughter echoes in his mind and he closes his eyes, his hands clenching.

_“My, but you are a deadly sex goddess when you do that.”_

She had picked up on that particular technique during one of their training sessions and he was absolutely enraptured by her. By how quickly she learned. How better she moved than him, lighter, faster, more elegant. He knew then that he was gone. She had him.

Zevran stumbles backwards, away from the corpse. His eyes scan the area around him frantically and he sees more blood, more mucus, more marks, but none of _her_.

Behind the hill, there is a bridge that he sees leads across to another chamber. He has to stand on his tiptoes to look over, but he sees the entrance. A flash of something he believes to be parchment is there too, and it is enough to spur him on. His footsteps are rushed now, swift and they echo across the tall walls. His breath leaves him in a fog and he cares not for what he will find across the bridge.

Only if it’s her.

The way that he moves across the bridge is similar to the footprints, dazed, delirious, and inebriated. If he were in any other situation, he would have laughed, but now he can’t.

He can’t.

_“I will wait for when you are able to, then.”_

She had whispered then and he knew she would wait for him now, too.

She has to wait.

Like a starved man, he whimpers, a desperate sound that echoes around him. The entrance to the chamber is not far now, and he sees the parchment on the ground.

So, he was right.

The footprints are almost gone now, the spots dried, but he sees large stains of blood right next to the papers, like someone had vomited right after writing. The smell that lingers in the air is familiar, and vile, blood and sweat and something else, something rotten.

Concern clouds his mind, and his hands shake. The knot in his stomach is so tight, he is afraid it might burst.

The dagger in his pack hits his lower back as he walks and fuels him with another wave of unrelenting fear that claws at his throat.

That dagger was to be used as a last resort. She was a devil with her bow and arrows, and that dagger was only there for _what ifs._ She would not use it. She took care of it, polished it, toyed with it, she would not – only if she was…

_No_.

No, Zevran.

She is close. She will come back to you.

You are close.

She promised.

_“I will come back to you. There is no other place for me but by your side.”_

Her voice is soft and an illusion and for a moment; he fears he has gone mad. He lets out a dry sob, hands clenching into fists as her voice tempts him, fluttering over his sensitive ears and he feels the twitch in his neck, the need to turn around and see her but he knows she is not there.

She will be.

Soon.

She has to.

He stops before the opening to the chamber, eyes wide, breath escaping his lips in hushed sobs and frantic exhales. The scene does not bode well, and he feels his chest hurt.

He wonders if this is how he will die, too.

There are papers strewn across the ground, spots and stains of blood and… _something_ else on the ground. The chamber is dark, the light from the main one barely gracing the insides, but from what little he sees, he notices the splotches of words dripping from the walls. He can’t decipher them, not without entering and so he focuses on the papers as he slowly approaches them.

Dizziness hits him as he inhales, the stench absolutely intoxicating. His eyes linger on some of words scratched into the paper and he feels a gasp tear through him. He clenches his hands.

‘The voice… it burns in my head… it will not leave… The Calling…’

He can see some of the words and a whimper leaves him as he recognizes his love’s handwriting. The swirls of her usually small letters are messy and rough, huge and wide – speckled with blood, dirt and wet spots, almost destroyed save for a few phrases.

He grasps onto the gold bar between his collarbones, breathing, in and out, in and out, throat tightening as the smell hits him. Closing his eyes, his hands shakes on his dagger.

She has to be alive.

Alive.

He breathes in, and coughs at the acidic taste in his mouth. Zevran proceeds to walk through the chamber, the vastness of it frightening, dark spots creating perfect hiding spots. The paper ruffles beneath his boots and he’s heaving as he reads the words written in dark, almost black crimson.

‘No escape.’

‘All for nothing.’

‘Failure.’

‘I hear…’

Another sob tears through him and he has to place a hand over his mouth and nose as the stench greets his form.

He looks ahead.

‘Alive.’

There, beneath the scribbled crimson letters above her head, lays the Grey Warden. The Hero of Ferelden. Warden-Commander. Saviour of the Fifth Blight.

His love.

Irosyl. Irosyl. Irosyl.

He thinks he utters her name, but he does not. It’s there in his throat, trapped.

The sight leaves him frozen in place and he stops breathing. His eyes trace her form – her corpse – the everlasting red of her hair, matted and dirtied, clunks of it clinging to her fingers as they rest in her lap. Her eyes are white, but not pure, the kind of white you would get from spoiled milk and they stare ahead, not even glistening, just _there_ – like sand inside an hourglass. Her lips, those once tempting and inviting lips, hang open like she is but a ragdoll; chapped, bloodied, and pale. There is blood, black and burning, all over her, staining her Warden-Commander armour, making the blue colours disappear.

He stumbles.

Zevran screams.

The gold bar jumps as he rushes towards her, another piercing scream.

He stumbles.

His knees hit the ground before her and he is just _there_.

Like she is.

He has never seen his hands shake as much as now and he has never felt such unbearable pain claw at his chest. Not even with the Crows. Not even while fighting the Archdemon.

He believes he will die.

He weeps, openly, vulnerably, and if there were an Archdemon in this chamber right now, a horde of darkspawn just waiting to attack, he would’ve let them take him, destroy him – anything to soothe the burning pain in his chest. His whole body is shaking, his knees barely grazing the ground as he kneels before her.

His Warden.

This close, she is all bones, her cheekbones sticking out and protruding, the hollow of her throat – which he used to kiss with ardour – sunken and almost crumbling. His hand reaches out again to touch her and he sobs.

It is her. His love.

But it looks nothing like _her_.

“Ir – my… my love…” he hiccups, gloved hand stretching out to caress her cheek.

She is cold, freezingly cold and Zevran retreats his hand to take off his glove and place his flesh back on hers. Her head moves to the side from the friction and her _vallaslin_ that he used to trace with his thumb is barely visible, blood drained completely out of her being.

The crimson earring he had given her as a proposal is still there on her ear, and Zevran bows his head as he sobs, tears escaping him and dripping down onto her broken and deformed legs. The smell that emits from her should make him gag and retreat, but he can’t find it in himself to move away.

Not from her.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he chants it like a prayer, and his shaking fingers unclasp the earring.

The motion makes her body lean further into the side and in his delirious state, he does not notice. He lets out a yell as it falls down to the ground, elbows falling behind him in fear. The earring is gripped tightly in his bare hand. The dagger rackets in his pack, the letter ruffles. The gold bar drops heavily on to his chest and it feels like it might tear through him.

He falls to the floor with another sob, heavy breaths escaping him.

It is only then that he notices the frantic, wild handwriting above her, the crimson of the dried blood barely visible on the walls.

His voice breaks and disappears as he reads it.

‘Ir abelas.’

**Author's Note:**

> Bragi thaig does not exist in DA universe, but since Bioware uses Old Norse names for the thaigs, I decided to create one of my own for the sole purpose of this fic. 
> 
> Bragi was the norse god of poetry, and it reminded me of Zevran and his line : "Can I respond in poetry? No? How sad.", so I decided to use it just so it's not a nameless place he's going through.


End file.
